The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 29

Nothing is great, of which more great, More glorious is the scorn.

Can fame your carca.s.s from the worm Which gnaws us in the grave, Or soul from that which never dies, Applauding Europe save?

But fame you lose; good sense alone Your idol, praise, can claim; When wild wit murders happiness, It puts to death our fame!

Nor boast your genius, talents bright; E'en dunces will despise, If in your western beams is miss'd A genius for the skies;

Your taste too fails; what most excels True taste must relish most!

And what, to rival palms above, Can proudest laurels boast?

Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56) Resplendent are its rays, Let that suffice; it needs no plume, Of sublunary praise.

May this enable couch'd Voltaire To see that-"All is right,"(57) His eye, by flash of wit struck blind, Restoring to its sight;

If so, all's well: who much have err'd, That much have been forgiven; I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear, "Voltaires are, now, in heaven."

Nay, such philanthropy divine, So boundless in degree, Its marvellous of love extends (Stoops most profound!) to me:

Let others cruel stars arraign, Or dwell on their distress; But let my page, for mercies pour'd, A grateful heart express:

Walking, the present G.o.d was seen, Of old, in Eden fair; The G.o.d as present, by plain steps Of providential care,

I behold pa.s.sing through my life; His awful voice I hear; And, conscious of my nakedness, Would hide myself for fear:

But where the trees, or where the clouds, Can cover from his sight?

Naked the centre to that eye, To which the sun is night.

As yonder glittering lamps on high Through night illumin'd roll; My thoughts of him, by whom they s.h.i.+ne, Chase darkness from my soul;

My soul, which reads his hand as clear In my minute affairs, As in his ample ma.n.u.script Of sun, and moon, and stars;

And knows him not more bent aright To wield that vast machine, Than to correct one erring thought In my small world within;

A world, that shall survive the fall Of all his wonders here; Survive, when suns ten thousand drop, And leave a darken'd sphere.

Yon matter gross, how bright it s.h.i.+nes!

For time how great his care!

Sure spirit and eternity Far richer glories share;

Let those our hearts impress, on those Our contemplation dwell; On those my thoughts how justly thrown, By what I now shall tell:

When backward with attentive mind Life's labyrinth I trace, I find him far myself beyond Propitious to my peace:

Through all the crooked paths I trod, My folly he pursued; My heart astray to quick return Importunately woo'd;

Due resignation home to press On my capricious will, How many rescues did I meet, Beneath the mask of ill!

How many foes in ambush laid Beneath my soul's desire!

The deepest penitents are made By what we most admire.

Have I not sometimes (real good So little mortals know!) Mounting the summit of my wish, Profoundly plung'd in woe?

I rarely plann'd, but cause I found My plan's defeat to bless: Oft I lamented an event; It turn'd to my success.

By sharpen'd appet.i.te to give To good intense delight, Through dark and deep perplexities He led me to the right.

And is not this the gloomy path, Which you are treading now?

The path most gloomy leads to light, When our proud pa.s.sions bow:

When labouring under fancied ill, My spirits to sustain, He kindly cur'd with sovereign draughts Of unimagin'd pain.

Pain'd sense from fancied tyranny Alone can set us free; A thousand miseries we feel, Till sunk in misery.

Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish, Our wish we relish less; Success, a sort of suicide, Is ruin'd by success:

Sometimes he led me near to death, And, pointing to the grave, Bid terror whisper kind advice; And taught the tomb to save:

To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds As spangles o'er us s.h.i.+ne, One day he gave, and bid the next My soul's delight resign.

We to ourselves, but through the means Of mirrors, are unknown; In this my fate can you descry No features of your own?

And if you can, let that excuse These self-recording lines; A record, modesty forbids, Or to small bound confines:

In grief why deep ingulf'd? You see You suffer nothing rare; Uncommon grief for common fate!

That wisdom cannot bear.

When streams flow backward to their source, And humbled flames descend, And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft, Then human sorrows end;

But human prudence too must cease, When sorrows domineer, When fort.i.tude has lost its fire, And freezes into fear:

The pang most poignant of my life Now heightens my delight; I see a fair creation rise From chaos, and old night:

From what seem'd horror, and despair, The richest harvest rose; And gave me in the nod divine An absolute repose.

Of all the plunders of mankind, More gross, or frequent, none, Than in their grief and joy misplac'd, Eternally are shown.

But whither points all this parade?

It says, that near you lies A book, perhaps yet unperus'd, Which you should greatly prize:

Of self-perusal, science rare!

Few know the mighty gain; Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read Their Bibles o'er in vain:

Self-knowledge, which from heaven itself (So sages tell us) came, What is it, but a daughter fair Of my maternal theme?

Unletter'd and untravel'd men An oracle might find, Would they consult their own contents, The Delphos of the mind.

Enter your bosom; there you'll meet A revelation new, A revelation personal; Which none can read but you.

There will you clearly read reveal'd In your enlighten'd thought, By mercies manifold, through life, To fresh remembrance brought,